Chapter Text
Darkness had been Wu Suo Wei’s constant companion for the past two years.
At first, it had been unbearable—an endless void that swallowed sound, space, and time alike.
He had learned to live with it, even if moments like these reminded him how fragile that adaptation was—how something as simple as walking without stumbling could still betray him. He was still coming to terms with the truth that he would never again see the world beyond his reach.
What hurt the most wasn’t the darkness itself.
It was knowing that he would never again see the face of his brother—the only family he had left.
Turning restlessly on the bed, he stared into the empty space before him and wondered whether the blackness surrounding him could have different shades. Sometimes it seemed as if faint bright spots flickered before his eyes, but the doctor had said this was normal.
An aneurysm pressed against his optic nerves. Its position made surgery nearly impossible. There was a chance—barely—but the risks were immense. Besides, he didn’t have enough money for a surgery that could only be performed at one of the best clinics in Boston. The costs were enormous, and neither he nor his brother could afford such a sum—even if they worked for ten years straight.
He already felt terrible about living off his brother’s support, especially because he couldn’t take care of himself. In the past, Suo Wei had valued his independence above all else, but now he had no choice but to rely on others.
Day and night blended into one.
For him, everything was the same—black and formless. Time had become a relative concept—he could no longer distinguish hours from minutes, nor did he know whether it was still morning or already noon.
Eventually, he lifted himself up and propped himself on one elbow. With his other hand, he reached out, feeling around for the watch that should have been lying on the bedside table.
Wu Ming had given it to him, saying it would make things easier. Safer. That he should wear it, always.
It looked like nothing special—just a watch, plain and unobtrusive. But Suo Wei knew better. The technology hidden inside was far beyond what he could afford, far beyond what Ming should have been able to buy so easily. He had wondered, briefly, where the money came from.
He had never asked.
Instead, he had accepted it with a quiet thank-you and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Over time, it became indispensable.
He wore it every day, never removing it—not even at night. It told him the time, guided him when he hesitated, and watched over him when the world felt too large and uncertain. If he ever lost his way, if panic ever took hold, help was only a single motion away.
Ming’s number waited there, ready.
Suo Wei had never pressed it.
But knowing he could was enough.
When he finally located the device, he pressed the button on the side of the dial, and a mechanical voice spoke:
“Four forty-two.”
Suo Wei let out a quiet sigh, sinking back onto the pillow.
So early.
Usually, he woke up around six—slightly later than Su Yin, Ming’s wife, who at that hour was already preparing breakfast and getting little Lan Lan ready for school.
Suo Wei adored the girl. Ming’s daughter was the most cheerful and well-behaved child one could ever dream of. She caused no trouble and always listened to her parents and uncle.
At first, Lan Lan had not understood why Suo Wei couldn’t see, why he could’t read her storybooks and see people’s faces or the views outside. Wu Suo Wei had explained it to her as gently as he could—how it had happened and what his life was like now—and the girl eventually accepted it. From that moment on, she never left his side, declaring that she would take care of him. At that time, Suo Wei had nearly burst into tears from emotion.
How much time had passed?
He reached for the watch again, and this time the voice informed him that it was two minutes past five. There was no point in sleeping anymore. Besides, he could no longer close his eyes anyway—not that it made any difference, since all he ever saw was darkness.
Slowly, he got out of bed. Holding onto the edge, he turned to the left and took a few unsteady steps until his foot bumped into something hard. Bending down, he picked up the clothes that Su Yin had prepared for him the night before: loose cotton pants and a soft shirt.
The weather was still relatively warm—only the beginning of January—but the temperature sometimes dropped below freezing at night. So he threw a thick woolen cardigan over his shoulders, one he had already found on his own in the wardrobe, wrapping himself in it as if bracing against more than just the cold.
Suo Wei didn’t pay much attention to fashion. Comfort was all that mattered now. He couldn’t see himself, nor could he see how others perceived him or what they thought of his appearance. Perhaps he had once cared about other people’s opinions, but now it no longer mattered.
Even within the safety of his own home, movement demanded care. Corners had been dulled, furniture fixed in place after too many painful lessons, but caution still followed his every step. Containers were labeled, spices carefully distinguished, all to keep him from repeating quiet humiliations—like the time he sweetened his tea with salt, and only realized it after the first bitter sip.
It exhausted him to feel so helpless, unable to do anything on his own, constantly causing trouble for others. Ming and Su Yin devoted as much time to him as they could, but they also had their own responsibilities. Taking care of a grown man who couldn’t function independently was an additional burden for them.
That was why he had decided to start learning.
It took him months to master the Braille alphabet, and another to truly internalize it. Ming labeled and attached plaques in every possible place, so that whenever Suo Wei touched something, he could read what it was. This method allowed him to become familiar with his surroundings quickly.
As he walked down the corridor, damp air brushed his skin. The house was old, the windows leaky, and moisture seeped inside. They couldn’t afford to renovate the building—all money they earned went toward daily expenses. If they allowed him to work normally, Suo Wei could have saved some money, but Ming refused and strictly forbade it, saying that he would make sure they lacked nothing.
Suo Wei thought Ming was overworking himself. Recently, he hadn’t even come home for several days, completely absorbed in an important project. Supervising construction work carried immense responsibility—one mistake could cost far more than money—and it left him no room to rest.
Ming was an architect by profession. Right after graduating with honors, he was hired by a firm almost immediately. His talent didn’t go unnoticed—many tried to recruit him, offering better pay, better positions, better prospects. In the end, however, he accepted only one offer: the one extended by his best friend.
Suo Wei could no longer recall the man’s name. He only knew that Ming had studied with him once, that their bond had endured beyond university halls. Ming often spoke about him, recounting small anecdotes with quiet fondness, but Suo Wei had never had the chance to meet him.
From what Suo Wei understood, the man lived in a world far removed from his own. His family had run a business in Wuxi for generations, gathering wealth and influence, until the responsibility of it all was placed upon him, still young, yet already carrying so much.
How was it possible that they had never met?
Wuxi was vast enough to swallow countless lives without overlap, its crowds endless, and chance encounters were rare—but if he was Ming’s friend, then why had Ming never introduced them? Or perhaps it was the other way around. Perhaps that man had never wanted to meet him. Or maybe there had simply never been a reason to.
After all, he was only Ming’s much younger brother. Someone a busy man would have no time for.
The thought lingered, strange and unbidden.
Why had this stranger suddenly appeared in his mind without invitation?
A soft rustle from the kitchen broke the stillness.
Su Yin had been awake long before him, as usual. Dawn had not yet arrived, but she was already preparing breakfast, filling the house with life. The aroma of steamed buns spread softly, soon accompanied by the familiar, comforting scent of pancakes—coriander and scallions, fried tofu and pork weaving together.
Suo Wei closed his eyes, breathing it all in slowly, letting the warmth settle in his chest. She usually made youtiao as well.
When did she ever find the time to prepare all of this?
“Oh, Wei Wei!” Su Yin suddenly called out, snapping him out of his trance. He smiled when his sister-in-law used that affectionate nickname. “Can you wake Lan Lan?”
“Sure!” he replied enthusiastically.
Suo Wei paused, fingertips brushing the wall before he adjusted his direction. The girl’s room was close—so close he no longer needed to think about it. His steps moved on their own, following a route carved into muscle and habit.
With a quiet push, the door opened, and he slipped inside.
The bed lay straight ahead. Only a few steps were needed. Tonight, the floor was mercifully clear—no scattered toys beneath his feet, no small traps left behind by childish play.
Suo Wei reached the edge of the bed and lowered himself onto it, movements slow and familiar.
Carefully, he extended his hand, searching until his fingers brushed warm fabric—and then found the small, sleeping form beneath his palm.
“Lan Lan,” he whispered tenderly. “It’s time to wake up.”
The little girl stirred slightly but remained fast asleep. Suo Wei could tell by her steady breathing as her chest rose and fell in a calm rhythm. He didn’t have the heart to pull her from the arms of sleep, but they had to get ready if they didn’t want to be late.
The school Lan Lan attended lay less than two kilometers away, yet the path leading there wound through narrow forest trails carved into the hillside. At this time of year, it was the most treacherous route—rain-soaked earth slick beneath one’s feet, stones half-hidden in mud, every step demanding care. What once had been a short walk now stretched into a slow, cautious journey.
Most mornings, Su Yin walked with them, keeping a careful eye on both the child and the path ahead. Today, however, Suo Wei decided to go alone. The inn needed opening at dawn, and his sister-in-law already carried enough responsibilities without adding his to the list.
They sold their old house fifteen years ago, the day they left Furong with their parents. Leaving the small town—so limited in promise, yet heavy with memories—had been painful. At the time, none of them believed they would ever return.
And yet, in the end, fate had quietly led them back to the very place they once abandoned.
Eventually, they were fortunate enough to find a small place that had stood empty for years, its former owners having moved to another province long ago. That no one had claimed it before them felt almost miraculous—its gloomy exterior and dilapidated state likely driving most people away.
After some repairs, it became barely comfortable, but it had light, water, and warmth. For them, that was already more than enough.
With the current owner’s permission, Mr. Lu, they opened a small eatery—on the condition that they would share the profits. They had no choice but to accept these terms. Their budget was limited, and they couldn’t afford to look for something else.
Su Yin took charge of the restaurant without hesitation. She had studied management and possessed all the necessary qualifications; more than that, she had once worked in the kitchen of one of Wuxi’s well-known establishments, honing her skills until cooking became second nature to her. She was a woman of many talents—capable, composed, and effortlessly beautiful. Suo Wei could never quite understand how someone so accomplished had chosen to leave behind the comfort of city life to settle in a place so removed from convenience and ease.
It was Ming who proposed moving back to Furong—their hometown—arguing that returning to the place where Suo Wei had his happiest childhood memories would help him recover after the tragic accident in which he lost both his sight and his parents. Life in Wuxi had been too expensive. Most of their money had gone toward the funeral and Suo Wei’s treatment, forcing them to change their plans.
Ming had already started a family with Su Yin, but when their parents died and Suo Wei went blind, he had to make a risky decision. He couldn’t leave Suo Wei alone. Suo Wei had no one else, and the responsibility of caring for him fell on Ming.
Driven by emotion, he made this drastic choice, leaving everything behind. Without hesitation, he gave up all that tied him to Wuxi. Perhaps he, too, longed for the quiet life of a small, ancient town in Yongshun County.
Su Yin followed her husband without protest, trusting him completely. Together, they took Suo Wei under their wing—even though they were newly married and Lan Lan was barely two years old.
Suo Wei would never be able to repay them for what they had done for him, for the sacrifices they had made at the cost of their own happiness. He would spend the rest of his life trying to repay that debt, even though Ming insisted that he owed them nothing. That was simply what one did for a beloved younger brother—someone he would walk into fire for without hesitation.
Snapping out of his thoughts, Suo Wei gently stroked his niece’s silky hair, finally waking her.
“Shūshu,” the girl murmured sleepily, yawning. He felt her sit up on the bed, then small arms wrapped around his neck. “I’m sleepy.”
“I know, sweetheart,” he said softly. “But Mama already made breakfast.”
“Baozi?” she asked drowsily.
“Your favorite,” he replied with a smile.
He wrapped her tightly in a warm blanket and lifted her with ease.
For a four-year-old, she was quite petite and light as a feather. Holding her against his hip with one arm, he slid his other hand along the wall and headed back toward the kitchen, drawn by the tempting aromas of Su Yin’s cooking.
Suo Wei believed there was no one who could rival his sister-in-law’s cooking. To him, her dishes were flawless, each one deserving a place in the finest restaurants money could buy. That was why he never understood her refusal to pursue a career as a head chef, despite her deep love for the craft.
In Wuxi, countless doors had stood open to her—she could have become a celebrated culinary master if she so desired. Yet Su Yin only ever smiled and said she cooked for pleasure, and for those she loved. Suo Wei thought she was wasting her talent and potential—especially here, in this tiny town in the western part of Hunan.
He entered the kitchen carefully, feeling the change in temperature and the familiar layout of the room. The stove was on his left, the counter straight ahead. He could hear the soft crackle of oil and the rhythmic movements of Su Yin as she worked.
“Careful,” Su Yin said immediately when she sensed him approaching. “The floor might be slippery.”
“I know,” Suo Wei replied calmly. “I’m holding Lan Lan.”
“Shūshu!” Lan Lan protested softly, clinging to him like coala. “Don’t drop me.”
“I won’t,” he reassured her gently. “I promise.”
Suo Wei heard quickened steps of his sister-in-law, probably now noticing them and realizing that the blind man was actually holding her child.
“Lan Lan, what do you think you’re doing!”
Disbelief was clearly audible in her voice, and a moment later the little girl’s small body pressed more tightly against him.
“Wei Wei, give her to me.”
The four-year-old had no intention whatsoever of letting go of her uncle, despite Su Yin’s obvious disapproval as she tried to take her from Suo Wei’s arms.
“Lan Lan, what did I tell you? Don’t cause trouble for your uncle,” she scolded her daughter. “You’re already big enough to walk on your own. Or should I still treat you like a little baby?”
“I am big!” the girl protested.
“Then don’t tire your uncle. You know he can’t see and has to move carefully, and it’s even harder for him when he’s carrying you.”
“Su Yin-jie, really, it’s no trouble at all,” Suo Wei interjected.
He understood her concern, understood that it came from care rather than cruelty. Still, he couldn’t help resenting the way everyone treated him as something fragile, something easily broken. He didn’t want to be protected at every turn. He wanted to be normal again, and that meant learning how to live with his blindness—truly live with it. The sooner he accepted it, the sooner the world might stop tiptoeing around him.
Suo Wei adjusted the child in his arms, but without warning she was pulled away by her mother, and he felt as though something that belonged to him had been torn from him as well.
“Be a good girl,” Su Yin said, probably patting her head lightly as she always did.
He could almost imagine Lan Lan swinging her legs back and forth happily. “Mama, I want baozi with meat!”
“You’ll get meat,” Su Yin replied. “And soup. Eat properly.”
Suo Wei had always wanted children—he had even planned to start his own family someday. But that accident had shattered those plans.
He had been alone for so long that living without love had become a kind of habit. He lacked the courage to start dating again, and in truth, no one wanted to be with a blind man.
It wasn’t as though anyone had tried to approach him—once people learned that he couldn’t see, their interest faded almost instantly. He would be lying if he said it did not hurt, but he chose not to linger on that pain.
Somewhere deep inside, he held onto the fragile hope that one day, there would be someone who saw past his disability, for whom his blindness was neither a burden nor a reason to turn away.
Suo Wei moved to his usual place at the table and sat down. He folded his hands in front of him, listening quietly as Su Yin placed bowls and plates one by one and then reached for a fork.
After many clumsy attempts, he had come to realize that using chopsticks had become troublesome—especially when he couldn’t see what was in front of him.
There had been nights when even eating kept him from sleeping. Though it no longer troubled him as much, those early days had been harsh—meals ending half-finished, food scattered across the table or staining his clothes. He had felt reduced to something fragile and dependent, like a child who couldn’t manage on his own. It was Su Yin’s steady patience that carried him through, teaching his hands what his eyes no longer could.
“To your left is youtiao, to your right are pancakes, and the buns are in the middle,” his sister-in-law informed him. “Be careful, the tea is still hot,” she added hastily when Suo Wei had already reached for the cup.
“Thank you,” he answered quietly.
Wrapping both hands around the cup, he absorbed the warmth of the porcelain, drawing in the soft floral scent. He sipped slowly, cautiously, until his mouth filled with a clear, grassy taste, edged with smoke and gentle sweetness. Jasmine tea always calmed him, lifting his spirits in a way few things could. Some even claimed that those who drank it regularly would one day carry its fragrance with them.
“Any news from my brother?” Suo Wei asked softly after a while, serving himself pancakes and youtiao. Each bite was rich and precise, the flavors unfolding so fully that a quiet sigh escaped him—gratitude and admiration entwined.
“He should be back this evening, if nothing holds him up. There are no more delays, so he doesn’t have to constantly supervise the construction site,” Ming’s wife explained. “Lan Lan, are you happy that Daddy is coming home?”
“Yes!” the girl shouted joyfully, though her answer was muffled—she was most likely stuffing herself with buns filled with sweet red bean paste. “Mā, I don’t want bà to leave again.”
“I know, sweetheart. I don’t want him to either. We’ll tell him tonight when he arrives, all right?”
Lan Lan merely hummed in agreement.
“All right,” Su Yin sighed in barely contained fatigue. She sounded exhausted, like someone whose head was constantly filled with thoughts. ”Who wants more sweet buns?”
“Me!” Lan Lan shouted excitedly at the same time as Suo Wei.
They both laughed, and a moment later Su Yin joined them, amused by the situation.
——
After breakfast, Su Yin began clearing the table, the soft clink of porcelain and chopsticks filling the kitchen. Steam still lingered faintly in the air, carrying the last traces of warm dough and fried oil. Suo Wei rose almost at once, chair legs scraping lightly against the floor—his body reacting before his thoughts had time to catch up.
“I’ll help,” he said quickly, a note of eagerness slipping into his voice.
“You’ll help by not getting in the way,” she replied, firm but not unkind, hands already busy stacking bowls. “Go rest. Or walk Lan Lan to school later.”
“I can do that,” Suo Wei said immediately, as though afraid the opportunity might disappear if he hesitated. “I know the way.”
Su Yin paused. The sounds of movement stopped for just a beat too long.
“It rained last night,” she reminded him, her tone softening despite herself.
“I’ll be careful,” he said earnestly. “I’ve walked that road many times.”
There was another brief silence—one filled with unspoken worry. Su Yin exhaled slowly, the sound betraying her reluctance.
“…All right,” she said at last. “But don’t rush. If it’s too slippery, turn back.”
“I will,” Suo Wei promised without hesitation.
At the mention of school, Lan Lan had already wriggled off her chair, unable to contain herself.
“Shūshu is taking me today!” she announced proudly, as if this were a great honor bestowed upon her.
“Yes, yes,” Su Yin replied, a smile clearly audible in her voice. “Get your bag.”
Lan Lan dashed away at once, her footsteps light and uneven as she ran down the hallway, humming to herself—full of restless energy, as though the entire day lay ahead waiting just for her.
Suo Wei remained standing for a moment, listening to the familiar sounds of the house, his chest quietly warming at the thought that—for once—he was trusted to do something on his own.
This simple routine, repeated day after day, gave him a strange sense of stability. Even though his life had changed beyond recognition, some things remained the same.
With a faint, almost imperceptible smile, he turned back to his room. He opened the wardrobe and reached inside, fingers skimming over fabric until they found his rain jacket and gloves. The motions were slow, deliberate, as though he were reassuring himself that everything was still where it should be.
Then his hand stopped.
The beanie wasn’t there.
He frowned slightly.
He was certain he had left it there yesterday.
He searched once more, carefully, but the shelf remained empty. He knew he hadn’t misplaced it—he remembered folding it neatly, setting it in its usual spot the night before.
After a brief pause, he withdrew his hand and let the matter go. It wasn’t important. He could manage without it today.
He slipped his cane into his bag as well. On the way back, it would help him find his bearings—something solid to lean on when the familiar paths blurred and the world around him became uncertain again.
The first time Suo Wei had walked that path—one he had often taken alone as a child without any trouble—he realized that it was no longer so simple. Without the ability to see, everything felt foreign and filled with obstacles lurking at every step. He had to be careful not to trip over exposed tree roots, stones, or holes as he walked along the uneven forest path.
While Su Yin finished getting her daughter ready for school, Suo Wei slipped on his shoes and waited by the door, standing still with his hands loosely at his sides.
Then, gradually, two figures drew nearer—their footsteps distinct, one quick and light, the other slower, more measured.
”Lan Lan, remember to listen to your uncle,” Su Yin said close by, her voice clear and steady. Suo Wei could hear the faint rustle of fabric as she straightened the girl’s jacket, fingers moving with practiced care. “And don’t run off like you always like to do,” she added, the meaning unmistakable in her tone.
Before Suo Wei could respond, he felt a small weight latch onto him. Lan Lan’s hands grabbed his trouser leg, warm and insistent, the fabric pulling slightly as she leaned in.
“I always behave, right, shūshu?” she asked, her voice lifted with expectation, so close he could feel her breath brush against his knee.
The contact anchored him. Suo Wei smiled faintly, lowering his head just a little in her direction.
“Mhm,” he hummed in agreement.
A moment later, another touch joined them—Su Yin’s hand, firm and sure, guiding Lan Lan’s smaller fingers into his own.
“Here,” she said. “Hold her properly.”
Suo Wei adjusted his grip at once, curling his fingers around Lan Lan’s hand. It was small, soft, and slightly clammy, squeezing back with unfiltered trust.
“I will,” he replied.
He sensed Su Yin lingering—felt it in the way the air between them seemed to pause, in the silence she left behind before speaking again.
“And I know I sound like an overprotective parent again,” she said, this time directed at him, her voice lowering, closer. “But please, be careful. Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you? You’ll manage on your own?”
Suo Wei straightened instinctively. He tightened his hold on Lan Lan’s hand, grounding himself in the familiar warmth.
“Su Yin, I’ll be fine,” he said, his voice steady, carrying more resolve than reassurance. “I know this road like the back of my hand. I could walk it with my eyes closed.”
There was a brief pause—just long enough for him to recognize the shift.
“Very funny,” Su Yin replied dryly. He could hear the smile she tried to hide. “You and your sense of humor.”
Then, more firmly, “In any case, keep your eyes wide open.”
For a heartbeat, Suo Wei froze.
And then he laughed—openly, freely, the sound escaping before he could stop it.
“Yes, captain!” he said brightly, lifting his free hand in an exaggerated salute. “I won’t even blink!”
“All right, all right, enough joking,” Su Yin said, exasperation and fondness tangled together. He felt a gentle push at his shoulder as she ushered them forward. “Now go, or you really will be late!”
Lan Lan tugged eagerly at his hand, already impatient to go. Remembering Su Yin’s earlier words, Suo Wei squeezed the four-year-old's hand tighter and stepped outside, into the chilly winter morning.
Cold brushed against his face, carrying the scent of wet earth and damp leaves. Strong smell of pine filled his lungs, reminding him that they were at the edge of the forest. The stone pavement was slick with rain. The downpour had already eased, leaving only a light drizzle that misted the air, not nearly enough to warrant pulling out an umbrella.
Suo Wei decided to take out his cane for extra safety—not so much for himself, but for Lan Lan. He didn’t care if he got hurt by falling, but he could not allow anything to happen to Ming’s daughter. His brother would probably turn gray with worry if even a single hair fell from her head—he had a tendency to worry excessively.
After passing the first intersection, they reached the main street, which stretched straight toward the heart of the small town. Soon after, they veered slightly off course, taking a quieter path that led uphill to where the elementary school and kindergarten stood side by side. Suo Wei had never questioned why the building was hidden so deep among the trees—it had never troubled him before. When he was a child, this road had felt like part of a game, light and effortless. Now, reaching the top felt like a test of endurance.
The school complex was a historical structure, like most of the properties in town—it could not be demolished or relocated. Building a new one made no sense, since this one was still in fairly good condition—it had survived many years of struggle against the elements and invasions by hostile armies.
However, the most unique of all were the Tusi Palace and the Diaojiaolou compound, built on a high cliff by a wealthy Tujia chieftain. The houses had been designed for easy defense against invaders, and during the reign of King Tusi, they were mainly used as soldiers’ dormitories.
With over two thousand years of history, Furong was famous for its picturesque location—perched on cliffs above the Wangcun Waterfall, which cascaded into the You River.
Tourists didn’t visit very often due to inconvenient transportation, but despite that, the town continued to develop and thrive. Residents earned their living by selling local crafts and souvenirs. Regional cuisine tempted visitors to try it—shop windows and street stalls invited them to stop and take a piece of magnificent Furong with them.
That was how Suo Wei remembered it.
Walking along stone-paved roads between wooden houses with green roof tiles on both sides of the street—where the architectural style unique to this region dominated—was something special. It made one feel as though entering a different era. Furong was breathtaking in its beauty, especially surrounded by green-covered mountains.
But of all the sights, the waterfall remained the most unforgettable in his memory. It could be admired from afar, up close, and even from behind—a stone path allowed one to walk behind the hanging curtain of water resembling the wall of a crystal palace. As a child, Suo Wei loved playing there, and despite his parents’ warnings that it was dangerous and he shouldn’t go there alone, Ming had taken him along many times whenever he asked.
How much had changed since then?
Had the stone roads and wooden houses aged over the decade?
Or did everything still look the same as it had the last time he saw it?
Lan Lan held his hand tightly, adjusting her steps to his slower pace.
“Shūshu,” she said suddenly, “when will Baba come home?”
“Soon,” Suo Wei answered after a brief pause. “He’s just busy.”
“Does he miss us?”
“Yes,” Suo Wei said softly. “Of course he does.”
They walked in silence for a while. Suo Wei listened carefully to the sounds around him: birds in the distance, water dripping from leaves, the faint echo of footsteps far below. He relied on memory and instinct, counting steps, recognizing subtle changes in the ground beneath his shoes.
Halfway down the path, Lan Lan’s steps faltered. Suo Wei felt it immediately—the sudden shift of weight through her small hand, the uneven tug against his fingers, the scrape of her shoe skidding briefly over damp stone.
“Careful,” he said at once, tightening his grip instinctively, his cane steadying against the ground as he slowed.
“I’m okay,” Lan Lan declared bravely, though her voice wavered just a little, more stubborn than convincing.
Suo Wei stopped anyway. He lowered his head slightly toward her, listening—not just to her words, but to her breathing, the quickness of it, the way her hand curled tighter around his. He adjusted their pace, guiding her foot back onto firmer ground before moving again.
Behind them, hurried footsteps echoed faintly along the path, uneven and rushed.
“Suo Wei! Wait for me!”
Loud voice carried up the slope, breathless and familiar, cutting through the hush of the forest. Suo Wei paused once more, turning his head toward the sound, the corners of his mouth lifting in quiet recognition as the pine-scented air settled around them again.
“I didn’t think you could walk so fast,” the man said with a laugh, trying to catch his breath.
Jiang Xiao Shuai—his childhood friend, with whom he had lost contact after leaving Furong, and with whom he had recently rebuilt that bond—had become the closest person to him, aside from Ming and Su Yin. Suo Wei had no idea what happened to him over all those years, and when they finally met again, old memories resurfaced, and they immediately clicked as if nothing has changed.
It was Xiao Shuai who recognized him first when they accidentally ran into each other on the street. Suo Wei couldn’t see the man standing in front of him, nor did he recognize him at first. But as the other spoke, his voice weaving through memory, something inside Suo Wei trembled—until, piece by piece, he remembered his old friend from school.
It was embarrassing how easily Suo Wei had forgotten him, especially considering the sea of tears he had shed when leaving Furong, unwilling to part from the boy back then. Over time, he adapted to life in the larger city, found new friends, and those from the small ancient town became little more than pale shadows of another time.
For Xiao Shuai, learning that Suo Wei had lost his sight was a heavy blow, yet nothing compared to the devastation brought by his parents’ death. He couldn’t bring himself to accept how such a tragedy had unfolded, how, in such a short span of time, fate had taken so much.
Suo Wei rarely spoke of that incident, but he felt he owed the truth to his friend—someone Zhang Li Ya and Wu Tian Chen had once welcomed as another son, during those long-ago days spent playing together in the yard.
In truth, Xiao Shuai was the only person Suo Wei ever confided in, the only one who knew the feelings he had kept sealed away for so long. He simply knew he could trust him. Xiao Shuai, in turn, carried a secret of his own—one he shared only with Suo Wei, having waited far too long to unburden his heart, afraid of being judged, most of all by his own family.
There was a beat of silence, followed by the faintest sniff.
“Su Su, say hello.” Xiao Shuai urged his little sister, amusement threading his voice.
Suo Wei heard her before she spoke—the hesitant shift of weight, the soft scrape of a shoe against stone, the tiny pause that always came before she gathered the courage to open her mouth.
“Good morning, shūshu,” the girl said politely.
Her voice was small but clear, like a bell rung with care. Suo Wei turned toward it at once, the corners of his mouth lifting into an unguarded smile.
“Good morning,” he replied, warmth blooming in his chest. “You sound very energetic today.”
Xiao Shuai clicked his tongue, the sound sharp with mock disapproval.
“Oi, how did he suddenly become shūshu?” he complained. “That won’t do—call him ge.”
Suo Wei felt his ears warm instantly. Before he could react, Su Su’s small voice chimed in, earnest and certain.
“But Lan Lan calls him shūshu too.”
He waited, counting breaths, until Xiao Shuai replied with a dramatic sigh.
”That’s because he’s her shūshu,” he explained firmly. ”Not yours.”
Despite him being the same age as Xiao Shuai, she often called him shūshu, simply because Lan Lan did. It was a childish imitation, nothing more. But this was the first time she had said it openly, right in front of her brother.
No wonder Xiao Shuai hadn’t known how to react.
Su Su was a year older than his niece, yet the two girls quickly grew close. It happened naturally, over many mornings spent climbing the steep hill toward the school, their small footsteps echoing against stone and earth.
Xiao Shuai often walked with Suo Wei—like today—keeping him company along the way, matching his pace without comment. He never made a big deal out of it, but Suo Wei was deeply grateful. The road felt less lonely with him there, the climb less exhausting.
With Xiao Shuai beside him, Suo Wei felt free to speak, free to confide worries and thoughts he kept hidden from others. When no one else was around, they were simply themselves.
“Lan Lan, look what I found!” Xiao Shuai’s sister called out suddenly, her voice bright with excitement as they had walked a little farther up the path.
Suo Wei heard the quickening of small footsteps, light and eager, followed by Lan Lan’s soft gasp. He couldn’t see what had caught their attention, but he could imagine it easily—perhaps a smooth stone, a strange leaf, or something glittering faintly in the wet earth.
“Shūshu,” Lan Lan said, tugging at his hand before loosening her grip, her voice careful, as if asking permission for something important. “Can I go with Su Su?”
Suo Wei smiled faintly and nodded. “Go on,” he said gently.
The small hand slipped from his grasp, warmth leaving his palm. For a fleeting moment, an unexpected emptiness settled in his chest—a hollow pause where her presence had been. It lasted only a heartbeat.
Almost immediately, another touch replaced it.
A firm but familiar hand closed around his arm, steady and reassuring.
“Don’t wander too far,” Xiao Shuai called after the girls, his voice raised just enough to carry through the damp air. “I want to keep you within my sight!”
As he spoke, he drew Suo Wei a little closer, the fabric of their sleeves brushing together. Suo Wei adjusted his balance instinctively, matching his friend’s pace without thinking.
“What a nasty weather,” Xiao Shuai muttered, trembling slightly from the cold. “I hate rain.”
Suo Wei tilted his head slightly, listening to the soft patter around them—the damp ground yielding beneath their steps, the faint drip of water from leaves overhead.
“It’s much colder in Wuxi at this time of year,” he said after a moment, recalling icy winter days. “The kind of cold enough to freeze your blood. Your hands go numb before you even realize it.”
Xiao Shuai shuddered at the thought. “Sounds miserable.”
“It’s not that bad,” Suo Wei replied lightly. “You can get used to it.”
Although Wuxi lay far from their hometown, the climate itself was not so different—only gentler here, without the sudden, biting drops in temperature that winter brought to southern Jiangsu.
“…Besides,” he added in a low voice, “a city covered in snow has its own kind of charm.”
“Tell me more,” His friend sighed dreamily. “What was it like, living somewhere so big?”
They spent the remaining time exchanging fragments of their lives—small, unremarkable stories carried by familiar voices, filling the quiet spaces between them. Before long, the sound of children reached Suo Wei’s ears, bright and lively, overlapping in a way that told him they were close.
By the time they arrived at the school gate, the courtyard was already awake with noise. Parents’ voices rose and fell as they offered last-minute reminders, some lingering longer than necessary, while teachers called students inside, their words crisp and practiced.
Suo Wei stopped and crouched slightly in front of Lan Lan. His fingers found the edge of her collar, smoothing the fabric with slow, careful movements, memorizing the warmth beneath his fingertips.
“Listen to your teacher,” he said gently. “And don’t run.”
“Okay,” she replied obediently.
Then she hesitated. Her small arms wrapped tightly around his neck, clinging to him as if unwilling to let go.
“Shūshu…” she murmured softly. “When I grow up, I’ll be your eyes.”
The words struck him without warning.
Suo Wei felt his chest tighten, emotions swelling too quickly for him to steady them. He drew in a slow breath, forcing a smile he hoped she could hear in his voice.
“You already are,” he said quietly.
Lan Lan laughed, the sound light and carefree, and pulled away at last. He listened as her footsteps retreated, quick and uneven, then merged with Su Su’s as the two of them ran off together, their giggles echoing briefly before dissolving into the surrounding noise.
Suo Wei remained where he was for a moment longer, standing amid the voices and footsteps, letting the warmth she had left behind linger in his arms long after she was gone.
Only then did he turn back, carefully retracing his steps up the familiar path.
Xiao Shuai followed close behind, never rushing him, never falling too far back—close enough that Suo Wei could sense his presence without needing to ask.
They did not hurry on the way back.
Suo Wei counted each step in his mind, measuring distance by memory and sound. The gravel shifted differently beneath his shoes where the path curved, and the air gradually grew warmer as the sun climbed higher. The damp scent of earth lingered at first, then slowly faded, replaced by something drier, lighter. Morning was moving forward, whether he wished it to or not.
They were nearing the bend in the path when hurried footsteps came toward them from ahead—careless, far too loud to belong to anyone cautious. Along with them came a familiar voice, bright and intrusive as ever.
“Why is it that every time I see you, you’re connected like Siamese twins?”
Suo Wei stopped instinctively. Xiao Shuai did the same.
Before Suo Wei could react, his best friend wrapped an arm around him with exaggerated enthusiasm, pressing close in deliberate confirmation of the accusation.
“Because we love each other,” Xiao Shuai replied without hesitation.
He leaned in, and before Suo Wei even had time to protest, a wet smack landed squarely on his cheek.
“Ew—!” the man shouted in exaggerated disgust. “Leave those filthy public displays of affection at home!”
Suo Wei couldn’t hold back his laughter anymore. The sound escaped him, light and genuine, surprising even himself.
“Good morning to you too, Wang Shuo.”
Suo Wei slowed his pace almost unconsciously, not because the path demanded it, but because the soundscape around him had grown too full, too lively to rush through.
Wang Shuo’s voice cut through the air first—loud, theatrical, brimming with exaggerated grievance.
“Seriously, do you have to walk so close?” Wang Shuo continued completely ignoring the greeting. “Some of us are single and sensitive, you know.”
Suo Wei could practically hear the dramatic hand pressed to the chest, the offended sigh that surely followed. Wang Shuo always performed his suffering as if the world were his audience.
Xiao Shuai snorted. ”Not my fault no one wants you.”
The words were cruel only on the surface. Beneath them lay familiarity, the kind earned through years of friendship—where insults were just another language, spoken fluently and without fear.
Wang Shuo huffed, pretending to be offended.
“You’re really unfair. Every time, the two of you leave me behind and go off being disgustingly sweet on your own,”he complained, still a little out of breath. ”What, am I invisible now? Do I need to start holding hands with myself too?”
As he spoke, Suo Wei heard his steps falter for a second, as if Wang Shuo had slowed on purpose, waiting to see if either of them would turn back. They didn’t. Xiao Shuai never did—not for that kind of bait.
“Oh please,” Xiao Shuai scoffed. “Be grateful someone would still want to hold your hand—your own doesn’t have much of a choice.”
Suo Wei smiled faintly, lips twitching before he could stop himself.
The banter rolled on, effortless, familiar. He listened to it the way one listened to a favorite song—knowing every beat, every rise and fall, anticipating each line even before it was spoken.
Wang Shuo paused, but it didn’t even last a second.
“I swear, if I disappear one day, it’ll be because you two abandoned me,” he added dramatically. “And don’t even pretend you’d notice.”
Suo Wei imagined him throwing his head back, eyes skyward, as if awaiting divine judgment.
Xiao Shuai’s answer came sharp and immediate.
”Good story, but in what chapter do you shut up?”
Wang Shuo scoffed.
"I will shut up if you start making sense."
The gravel beneath their shoes crunched softly as they walked. Somewhere nearby, water trickled faintly—too far to be the waterfall, but close enough to thread its presence into the background. The forest air felt cool against Suo Wei’s skin, carrying the damp, resinous breath of pine and earth.
Xiao Shuai’s voice cut in again, dry as ever.
"Da Wei, did you hear something? I thought it was just the sound of the wind."
Suo Wei felt Xiao Shuai lean subtly closer as he spoke, shoulder brushing his arm—a casual contact, unthinking, natural.
Wang Shuo wasn’t about to let that slide.
”Oh, now you’re talking? I thought you only did that behind my back.”
Suo Wei exhaled through his nose, a quiet laugh threatening to escape. Their voices overlapped now, quickening, sharpening, but never crossing into anything real. It was all noise without weight, words without wounds.
Xiao Shuai struck back effortlessly.
”So, a thought crossed your mind? That must have been a long and lonely journey for you.”
Wang Shuo gasped in mock outrage.
”It’s hilarious how you try to fit your entire vocabulary into one sentence.”
The air felt warmer now, either from the rising sun or the shared closeness of bodies moving together. Suo Wei adjusted his grip on his cane, letting its tip trace the familiar unevenness of the path, his attention divided between the ground beneath his feet and the verbal sparring beside him.
Xiao Shuai didn’t miss a beat.
“Oh, sorry, did the middle of my sentence interrupt the beginning of yours?”
Wang Shuo clicked his tongue loudly.
“Your lips keep moving but all I hear is, ‘Blah, blah, blah.’”
Suo Wei finally laughed out loud this time—soft, breathy, unguarded.
The sound surprised even him.
Xiao Shuai caught it immediately.
“See?” Wang Shuo continued without mercy. “Why are you rolling your eyes? Looking for your brain?”
Suo Wei shook his head gently, still smiling.
He couldn’t see them, but he didn’t need to. He knew exactly how this looked—how it always looked. Two boys bickering like stray cats, claws out but never sharp enough to draw blood. And him, walking between them, listening, steady, present.
“And you!” Wang Shuo suddenly cried pitifully. Suo Wei knew, without seeing, that he was being pointed at. “You can’t even see me, but I still feel like you’re staring and judging me too!”
“Of course he can’t see you, he’s blind, you punk!” Xiao Shuai snapped immediately—then froze. “Da Wei, I didn’t mean to—”
Suo Wei reached out without hesitation. Xiao Shuai caught his hand at once, gripping it a little too tightly.
“It’s okay, Shuai Shuai,” Suo Wei said calmly. “I’m blind. That’s just a fact.”
“Way to kill the mood, Xiao Shuai—congrats!” Wang Shuo clapped mockingly.
Xiao Shuai released Suo Wei’s hand and stormed after him. “Shut up, idiot!”
“Make me!” Wang Shuo shot back.
Their voices drifted farther away with each step, laughter breaking through the mock outrage.
“I know you love me the most—you’re just too shy to admit it!”
“No one loves you, you freak!” Xiao Shuai yelled, sounding almost hysterical. “Take that back!”
Smack.
“Oh—my baby’s so aggressive—”
Another smack.
“Who else but me can put up with your temper, baby?”
“Call me baby one more time and I swear you won’t live to see tomorrow!”
Suo Wei remained where he was, listening to their voices fade into the distance. He shook his head with a soft smile, warmth spreading through his chest.
“Guys,” he called out, amused. “Don’t forget your child while you’re fighting like an old married couple.”
“Oh, shit!”
They shouted in perfect unison.
Suo Wei exhaled slowly.
Today felt light. Almost too light.
If only he knew how far from the truth that feeling was.